Rained out?
by tooty frootie
Summary: True story of our last comp in 2002. most characters said it was mainly correct and well written.. but judge for yourself. Disclaimer: true story, but don't kill me if you're a character and it's not exactly correct.
1. Prologue, Bus Ride, Left Behind and Rain

This is about our last comp, names changed, enjoy, constructive criticism welcome. J

          The last practice finished somberly. As we marched off our field for the last time, I thought about all the interesting memories I had… of twirling my flute, of celebrating (pushups. They're evil, now when we hear "celebrate" we instinctively try to hand someone whatever we're holding and drop) and of avoiding the backmarching quads. We had sweated on that field, prayed for waterbreaks, despaired of ever getting the diagonal down pat and killed each other in the impossible move at the end of Part 1. This was our home, and we were leaving it for the last time with this show. No-one goofed off as we filed back to the band room, no imitations of our drum major, or laughter over some mistake that had happened. We were hoping, hoping fiercely for the clouds to dissipate, hoping to be victorious in the competition, hoping to not make a dumb mistake. Hoping an idiot judge would wander onfield so that we could mow them down… hey, it happens. Quietly, we put our instruments away and dispersed to our classes, still thinking about the next day.

                                                * * *

          "Gah!! Stupid weatherman, stupid radar, _why_ are you so green?? It's supposed to be dry here, not "showers all day!!" Come on… please… no rain…" This wasn't good. Our entire state looked green on the radar, dripping wet and promising a mushy field. Our band was having the best season in four years, with Sweeps at the third competition and Grand Sweeps at the previous one. Napa, the fifth, was to be our last. I wanted this to be as fun as the others, but I wasn't sure if it would be.

          I woke early in the morning. I was to be at school at 9am, since we once again performed at around 7pm. Our band was one of the biggest, at 180 with guard, and we ended up near the end of the program every time.

          "Mom… yes…we perform even if it rains, I told you that a million times! I have a change of clothes… shoes… dang, where's my secret pal present??" We were doing Secret Pals in band, and today was when I was to reveal who I was to the guy I had. Some senior, bass clari… A quick search and a sprint later, I bundled my hatbox and backpack into the car; after five more minutes of frantic nailbiting I waved to mom and began the search for my Secret Pal. After an examination of the Senior bus, I checked the bandroom, where he turned out to be engaged in deep conversation with the drum major. Both looked annoyed as I handed over the gift bag, so I hurriedly backed away. Death Glare of the Bass Clarinetist is very scary, especially when he towers about two feet above you.

          I didn't get my present before the bus… I didn't get my present on the bus, either, so I safely assumed it was either a) a drummer, since they had gone early to prep for their comp, or b) a hole, since we had many sick people. That was gonna suck… my friend, Audrey, was a corner, albeit not a very good one, right at the beginning. Opening set. Ouch.

          "What do you mean, Audris' sick?" I beseeched Yedda, another flute.

          "She called me. She has a fever, she can't march."

          "She was fine yesterday…"

          "So was Brian, and he's missing." Oh. That's why it was so quiet.

          "Uh… tubas can spread out, their spacing sucks anyway, but Audris' a CORNER!"

          "I know, I know."

          We worried, looking outside at the gloomy sky, and hoped it wouldn't rain. It hadn't yet, so there was a chance we'd be lucky. The hatboxes bounced merrily in the racks above our heads, gloves, brushes and hairties bouncing along with the Shakos. All the girls could do their hair prettily under the hats; my staple was the French braid. 

          "Christine, you flirt too much" floated back from the front. Ugh… the popular flutes gossiping again. "And, Sam, you don't do much to stop her either."

Stoopid flutes. Drag down the section's rep. 

"OoOOoooO look at that guy!" squealed someone else, pointing at the movie we were watching. Boring. "He's so hot!"

          "Not as hot as ---percussion member---" someone rejoined. I had my own opinions as to which drummer was cute, but I kept them to myself. No need to tell them everything.

          Finally, we pulled into the parking lot of some community center, or so it looked. Maybe it was a school; we couldn't tell. It wasn't raining, thank god, and our drumline was assembled outside. As we tumbled out of the buses, the band teachers rounded us up and explained what we were going to do. First, percussion competition; then, practice on the field, then free time, lunch, flower ceremony, warm-ups and finally performance. This was going to be a long day.

          The boundless sea of red-shirted Lynbrook Vikings drifted out to the field. I carefully memorized the way we were going; it might come in useful next year, or if I get lost. On the bleachers, we scoped out where the judges sat; that's where our horns up to the box would be aimed. We found seats, amidst all the other schools in their informal uniforms. Ours were the brightest, but that was probably good: you could spot a fellow Lynbrookie a mile away. 

          "Ooh, look at that drumline. It's so tiny…" The performance had finally started, and the line marching out wasn't exactly giant. A snare, 3 basses, 2 cymbals and one guy on quads; no pit. The band must be tiny, too… we remembered an even smaller drumline from the last comp, it had been a bass, a snare that had a tiny little cymbal fixed on and quads. The three also doubled as pit in one movement- we had admired the effort of the band, but it hadn't sounded too wonderful. The same went for this drumline.

          "Uh.. our music is so much better." We had watched them practice in the bandroom, the basses nervously passing through the cymbals, tentatively plunking through their music… we had seen them onfield that last rehearsal, much improved though still nervous… they had sounded a lot better than this group. "Ugh, look at their drill. Half of it they're marking time." There were good drumlines, of course… some rivals to ours, but overall it looked like we had the best one. Of course, the music was horribly catchy; we had already figured it out on flute (one of the guys from pit began playing it on bells after band a week or so ago; he was told to shut up by the band director and readily strangled by the other drummers) and were sure it would remain forever etched in our brains. (it has).

          We continued watching the bands until the awful second when we realized no-one else from Lynbrook remained in the stands. There were 3 of us left, flutes, our other friends having gone back to use the bathroom. No-one else from our band remained. Now that wasn't good.

          As we hurried out of the bleachers, two of our uniformed drummers were going the opposite way, looking lost. Panicked, we scurried down the street towards where our buses were (are you sure we're going the right way? Only I was sure ^_^), happily seeing a couple of section leaders doing the same thing.

          "Hey! Tori!" Jennie called, and the baritone section leader looked around.

          "Wow… freshmen… I'm surprised you found your way, they usually get lost somewhere back there" Tori vaguely waved her hand as we powerwalked past the other schools' trailers. We rounded a corner, and the buses came into view. "Oh dear… look, they're all onfield!" Tori shook her head, and sped up. Our piccolo and his flute friend began running, and I decided to follow them. 

          We panted up to the buses just as the last clarinets were leaving. Yedda was looking frantically around, but as she saw me she calmed down. Somewhat.

          "WHERE WERE YOU?! Here's your secret pal present, someone told me to give it to you, I forgot who come on you're gonna be late they're all onfield already Doc's gonna be so mad!!" She pressed a package into my arms as I flew up the bus steps to get my flute. 

          On the field, most of the band was already formed in a block. My running had paid off: I scrambled into place together with the slowpoke clarinets, as if I had never lost track of time and sprinted level with the tallest guy on flute. The later arrivals got a nice lecture; I noticed the two lost drummers speedwalking in the distance- they couldn't run in uniform. So far, so good.

          "Okay- eights and eights, horns snap up on the forward march and snap down on the mark time.  Resume HUT!" Whoa. Better pay attention before Tuba Guy behind me mows me down. Ooh- and guide. Someone's gonna yell at me soon. Wait… what's that? A raindrop? Or did I imagine it?

          Sadly, I didn't. Soon, it began dripping more and more; next thing I knew, the command was "Woodwinds, protect your instruments" and I was sticking my poor flute under my band jacket; then, taking my jacket off and rolling flutie up in it and putting the precious bundle on the tarps; then, happily sprinting back to the buses to put away my instrument. The uniformed drummers were cringing, as their uniforms got dotted with rain; the brass was standing sourly at parade rest, watching us out of the corners of their eyes.

          We flew back to the buses, where we dried our poor abused pads. When we finally went outside, the brass was under cover too, getting ponchos. Of course, there weren't enough to go around so woodwinds and the still uniformed drummers got priority. ^_^

..more later.


	2. Ponchos and Practice

It took about half an hour to pass out ponchos. You can't really do anything with our band unless you can see all of them at once- and unless you're onfield or have x-ray vision, that's hard to manage. When we march, we look serious and focused, and we are; but as soon as we're done we're as hyper and insane as the most lightheaded middle-schoolers. So passing out the ponchos involved poking others with the instrument some naïve person had asked you to hold, or seeing if you could play your flute under the poncho, or fighting over the un-ripped ponchos that a lucky few had received… in other words, chaos.

          The band directors didn't really help either- each had their own idea of what to do next, and each expressed that idea to the band. When half of the band was trickling back onfield, and half was forming into a block in the parking lot, the rain stopped and the sun came out. As the block grew longer, incorporating cars and an offending end of a school bus, the sun grew warmer and warmer and the ponchos grew heavier and heavier. As we finally made our way to the field, where we apparently were supposed to go at once, it looked like it had never rained. Sure, there were heavy gray clouds in the sky, but they looked so far off and unimportant we didn't pay attention. Right now, we were supposed to rehearse.

          We played through the music, first, and figured out that the freshman half of the band was still faking the harder parts. For some reason, 50% success didn't please the band teacher although it sounded decent, so we broke into sectionals. The flute section leaders went over the music, reminded the two male freshmen that the marching tap is on the _left_ foot even when nobody is calling out "left, left, left" and to spite the drumline that had chosen to practice closest to us, practiced the screaming in Part 3. Contented that a bunch of guys with heavy instruments of mass destruction were probably angry with us, the band got set for our Final Run-throughs. 

          It was weird, knowing this was the last time I could ever afford to mess up. As Part 1 dragged on, I thought how I'd have to perfect my backmarching here and there before 7pm. As we gave the Backmarching Drumline a wide berth, I thought about how we'd have to do that again in the evening, since the field was probably going to be as mushy as the practice one. Those evil weathermen… laying irrational blame calmed me somewhat and I finished the show without worrying myself to death.

          Some other school was waiting to use our practice field… having an audience was exhilarating. I love having someone to show off to, and after two and a half months we really had something to show off. Wet guard members were pushing around our Marble Blocks of Wood, while the drenched flags were refusing to twirl properly. Our soloists were playing everything down an octave so as not to kill their chops; at least three people fell down in the mud during the 2-to-5 4-person do-sa-do at 180bpm, and our diagonals in part 3 were as wobbly as the mud beneath them. 2 and a half months, eh? Blame the rain.

          We felt especially bad later, as we watched Leigh's guard perform insanely perfect flag spins with their Hershey's Kisses flags. Right, they get the silver and black ones while we make do with green and blue… and our guard wasn't half as together as theirs was, although it had improved a lot. (I later looked up Lee's practice schedule- I have no idea how they made time for homework.) 

Gah… I must now make time for MY hw. Stupid teachers, give us stuff to do on weekends. Stupid me, volunteering at CMEA all day Saturday…yay for human stupidity!


	3. Break and Lunch

Break. Ahh, the blessed time of exploring the area… almost getting lost on the way to the bathroom… successfully finding the way back… we watched Leigh practice their show, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at their guard as they rolled around (poor suckers) in the mud, expertly flipped rifles and drew pictures with the flags. 

"It's all their drill." Jennie stated. I looked at her, worried.__

"So? Even if it's just the guard, it looks really good. Better than us." I sighed, looking at our blue-jacketed guard goof off with the rest of our red-shirted Vikings, innocent of our worries.

"Their music stinks."

"I wouldn't say stinks…"

"It's not as good as ours, and they don't even have much of drill- look, they stand still half the time making pretty pictures while not killing each other. Smart!" Yedda broke in, annoyed. We were all painfully aware of the Flute Circle of Death, and the meshes, and the do-sa-do. Jealous of the Leigh band that seemed to achieve just as good results without the band committing suicide. It didn't seem fair.

"Oh well, look at their DM." She was wearing a black cape… our DM's burgundy cloak looked better. Dressed in a Roman costume with a broom-bristle plume on his helmet he looked… cool. Intimidating. Funny… 

"My soda's finished" Yedda said. "Wanna go with me to throw away the can?" It was an unwritten rule in Lynbrook that you stay in a clump all the time, or at least in a pair. Otherwise, god knows what would happen to you… all those sousaphones and drummers running around…_free_. (jk, but it can get scary) We strolled past another band, doing their circle warmup. Their commands were different from ours, and it seemed so foreign that a friend seemed comforting. This is what we walk around in pairs for, I thought. So we wouldn't get lost and scared.

"Ooh, look at that flute! She's twirling it!" Yedda pointed out, and I looked up. And laughed. There was my Other-School counterpart, spinning her flute as comfortably as me, while she talked to her friend. So much like me that it was worrying: was everybody in our band just a stereotype? Was every band made up of the same groups of people, just with different faces and names? Was there a Loud Percussionist and a Cute Percussionist, a Perfect Flute, a Cow-crazed Flute, a Twirly Flute, a Cocky Freshman Trumpet? *Twilight Zone theme plays* Maybe…Freaked out, I followed Yasmin to the nearest trashcan and jogged back to the field.

Lunch was hamburgers this time. The other competitions, we had had Italian, Chinese and Mexican food, and weren't sure what to expect this time. American- we should have known. They also offered tomato soup, which was affectionately known as "That Red stuff". After we ate, some alto came around and showed us as he added soda, chips and mustard into the vile mixture, then offered us a dollar to eat a spoonful. We weren't sure whether valve oil/trombone spit had been previously added so we declined. No use in puking copiously before the comp.

After dinner we had a little more free time, during which we exclaimed over two of our seniors who had gone into the town and shaved their heads during the free time/lunch break. As I opened my present on the bus (a notebook… very cute, with a watercolor of a rose lying on some sheet music on the cover) my eye fell on the schedule. Flower Ceremony was next… what was that? I bounced back outside, grinning widely as Jennie mistook some random guy for our BD, and blushed painfully as she realized her mistake. The guy was very nice about it; he was some band parent, balding and tall, and did look a lot like our BD. Maybe he was used to it.

A/N: enough for now, I'm going insane what with school and auditions in a month… we have finals for 7 classes and band is the only one I'm worrying about. Typical idiot…


	4. Thoughts on Changing and the Flower Cere...

As soon as Jennie had disentangled herself from the embarrassment, we were supposed to go change. The air was soon filled with shrieks and grunts as people elbowed their way into the uniform trailer, pushing through the crowd outside and with a big breath, diving in. As my turn came, I pushed past a shorty clarinet and found myself in the dark room crammed full of garment bags, hatboxes and bandies fighting to get their stuff. Offering my thanks to The BOB for my hatbox being safe on the bus, I checked through the 50's rack for my #52. Somebody shoved #50 into my hands, and I shoved it back, with a contemptuous "I'm no Kim!" 

I really do feel sorry for all the mass-named people… there were so many "Chen"s and "Lee"s, "Kim"s and "Ma"s. The hatboxes featured a large-print last name and a teeny first name, so in the dark it probably was easy to mistake yours for someone else's… Jennie _had_, at one point. 

Somebody tumbled me out of the trailer, and I let them. Sticking my tongue out at Yedda who was still in line, I sprinted up the bus steps to change before the rest of the freshmen filed in. Unfortunately, I was one of the last freshmen to get my uniform so as I stripped to shorts and T-shirt (we'd learned by then to wear stuff under our informal uniforms. Jennie had had an unpleasant experience as she was changing behind a protective screen of 3 garment bags and some guy had pulled one away to check if it was his.) I was practically back-to-back with the guys across the aisle. Still, it was better than the alternative…

Changing behind garment bags wasn't the easiest way: your shoes would usually sneak off down the bus under the seats, and it would take the flashlight that some "pervert" had brought to find them. So, changing in the aisle had several benefits; you weren't cramped, you didn't fear garment bag thieves and you had both seats to dump your stuff in. There were many variations on what to wear under, of course. I don't know when you guys change, but on the bus you could get driven to wear your formal over the informal. I did that once, and my legs felt like armor, what with jeans and the woolen bibber, and the polo neck of my shirt had to be carefully tucked under. More bother than it was worth, but I really digress.

Then, of course, came the Battle of the Hats. You'd grab your shako and gloves out of the hatbox and go outside to breathe while you figured out a way to put it on. This was when all girls seriously debated chopping all their hair off; even with my French braid, it took a couple of minutes to get every strand under. Other girls flipped their ponytails up and had a friend jam the hat on before the hair could escape; one guy with lots of hair ended up being meticulously clipped and pigtailed by the females in his section; Yedda decided she'd rather look dorky in a bun than bother with hair, so her lacy scrunchy glistened yellow-ly on her jet black hair.

Every now and then there was an idiot that had forgotten their hat, but even that could be fixed. Extra hats, gloves and black socks were ready for action in their boxes and plastic bags. The Uniform Moms also had tape, which I used for my loose tailpiece, although it was originally for too-small gloves that didn't stay beneath the gauntlets. I remembered the first time I had asked for "a bit of tape for my flute".

"For your…flute?" The uniform mom looked surprised.

"*nervous laugh* Yeah, my tailpiece is really loose." Dang… no time to have it trued. Again.

Another mom looked at me and laughed. "Flute problems?"

"Yeah." Dude…it wasn't that bad. And not that funny. "My tail keeps falling off." I explained as I tore a piece of tape off and affixed on the right spot. Other bandies laughed. I grinned, proud of my poor flutie.

I grabbed a plume and gauntlets, and went to look for my friends. Put on gauntlets myself? Pshaw, not while I have slav- uh, friends, to help me.

As I was fixing Jennie's right gauntlet, she looked over my shoulder and said, "Ooh, look, they're clumping up! Hurry, hurry…" I obediently tugged at her sleeve and whipped around, picking up my flute. People really _were_ clumping up; must be the flower ceremony, I thought.

It was. As the BD explained, we each got a flower for every year we had been in band. Like graduating, I thought…this was awful, knowing that in a couple of hours I'd be marching for the last time as a freshman. Last time in 2002. Next time I'd march, it would be summer holidays and I'd be back in band camp… supposing I made it to the next ensemble. Too many ifs. Well… we all grouped ourselves together by year, freshmen first, seniors last. As the BD began calling names, we clapped politely, but it was only freshmen, after all. We'd have three more chances at marching. Everybody received a flower and a handshake, somewhat apathetic since nobody knew you very well yet. As I stepped up for my little cloth rose, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Come ON! This is just marching band, not the end of the world. Yet it felt like that to me, a little freshman flute, with all her friends in marching band.

And then it was over. Some Uniform Mom was pinning the rose to my uniform, and I stood back to watch the rest of my friends receive theirs. Graduating from Zeros in MB to Ones. Doesn't that just make you pwoud?

That's all for now

And- characters, if you happen across this- don't kill me; my memory's not perfect!


	5. Couple of Ceremonies

All too soon, my friends joined me with cloth roses on their lapels. There was a big round of applause for all first-year marchers, during which we clapped and blushed with happiness. Grinning, we stood back to watch the second years get their double-flowers, and the third years get their three-flower pins. All this was done with great ceremony, so it seemed to take forever.

Seniors were last. Fourth-year marchers, they had the three other pins from the previous years fixed on too, like walking florist ads. They were the ones that really became teary-eyed, and as the BD gave them each a hug it half of the audience wanted to cry too. These were our seniors, section leaders that had marched every year they had been in Lynbrook. The "section leaders" part was enough to make us, their subordinates, cry. Sure, they'd tortured us, (well not really, not for flutes) given us memory tests, (only one…) yelled at us…(to get our attention…) But even if all the bad things weren't diluted, the good parts still overbalanced. They had tuned us before competitions, when we couldn't do it ourselves because we were tone-deaf; they had shown us how to put on gauntlets and when we messed up, done it for us; shown us how to cut gloves, how to play trills, been available online for last-second advice. 

And the Drum Major. He was the one we'd miss the most, and not only because of his conducting skills. You would be hard-pressed to find someone that hated _our_ drum major. He was probably the funniest one out there, and great at what he did (although he WAS in guard last year. Scary.) since he always got 1st DM in every competition. As he received his pin, everybody clapped, cheered, screamed, and in every way voiced their pride… 

Sappy, maybe. But true.

And the speeches that came next were just as sappy. I listened to about half of them, since some were aimed at last year's marchers and up, and some were punctuated by tears and sobs. Crying is all right if it's someone you know and admire, but if the guard section leader and random guardies are sobbing out a "we're so proud of you and we'll miss you" speech it's pretty easy to get bored. The speeches and flower ceremony took about an hour, but they weren't over yet.

The Last 8-and-8s were yet to come.

Seniors lined up for yet another ceremonious procedure. There they were, proud, in an almost-perfect line, standing at strict attention, arms perfectly lined up with their legs, chins proudly up, full uniform with the flowers. The Visuals guy began talking, saying the best things about them, how proud they were, how they were happy to be part of the Vikings, how they'd miss it, how they'd give it their all on the field. 

"Enough!" Jennie whispered. "He's making them cry. They're sad enough as it is."

"Hehe… he's making you cry too." I sniffed, also teary. Again. "And me."

"Ugh, I hope it doesn't rain" someone muttered. _Sh_, I thought. The seniors did deserve a grand send-off, and they were sure getting it, as the command was given.

"_Re_sume HUT!" Oh god. He looked so solemn.

All the seniors stepped forward on the _left_ foot, intensely concentrating, guiding, rolling, all the things they'd bashed into us onfield yet had sometimes forgotten themselves. We'd delighted in catching them before, but now it was the faces we observed, not the feet.

Serious faces. Faces we'd miss next year, faces we associated with instruments and personalities. I remembered the first marching tutorial, in the summer. We had been sent off with a guy called Jesse, to learn the box drill. He was goofing off with his little friend, making us laugh, and we'd liked him at once. Then there was Mike, a Japanese guy who couldn't pronounce "left" properly, so someone else had drilled us in slides and flanks. All these people that had first seemed as random faces in the crowd, now with names and personalities pinned on.

Now, they were once again faces. I mentally fingered the pins, then pushed them in deeper. I'd always remember the section leaders from this year.

A/N: didn't get as far as I wanted. My most sappy chapter to date, but too bad. Do more later. Review, please! Flames welcome!!


	6. Runthrough and Thoughts on Rain

Sure, I'd miss them, I thought. But we still have show to march. And look, it's not raining!  
I think I might have jinxed it then and there.

We did a simple circle warm-up, and people were so serious it was surprising. The band usually laughed and goofed off during warm-ups, but once again they surprised me by their solemnity. I silently agreed to behave completely for this last competition, steeling myself against backmarching drumline or the worrying guiding in part 3;I resolved also to play in the beginning of part 3, since the section leader behind me couldn't do anything any more. Hey, I thought, Last Competition has its benefits: the clari section leader can't chew me out anymore. Feeling so encouraged, I paid attention again as the section leaders met in the middle of the circle to tune, signaling us it was safe to break into clumps and talk. A quiet babble had started up the second the first figure of authority broke ranks, and I joined my flute friends in a heated discussion of whether it would rain. I was for, since our LynneBrooke luck promised bad weather; and I was soon proved right, as the ground began to show telltale spots. Few and pretty far between, they didn't worry us unduly. Our section leader came around, tuning us for the last time. I played my customary B natural instead of the B flat, and she expectantly cringed. Gotta follow the tradition, even if I did set it up myself. Daphne impatiently took a breath, and I played my B flat as she played hers. For once, I was in tune; I took it for a good omen.  
The sprinkles stopped. Life was good.

We split into little sectionals, again. This time, our section leaders didn't go over anything, they just told us how much they'd miss us. Third time, I got all teary. 

"When will all this sad stuff stop?" I asked Jennie. She was the most like me out of everyone there, probably, since Marching hadn't seemed to get such a strong grip on Yedda's busy life.  
"Next year?" Jennie offered. I thought about it, and agreed. "You seem to love marching so much… though most of us will just calm down after a week or so."  
A week? A _week_? How could they forget about it so soon? I felt in my heart that I'd still tense up in May if I heard the music. I'm still proving myself right every time I play the song, whether it's a perfect recording or the one from Napa.  
"You OK?" Yedda asked. _OK_? You kidding me? But I nodded.  
"Yup. Ooh look, we're doing a run-through." We meandered over to our spots in the circle, despite the hollers of our BD.

"Hurry up! Come on, we haven't got all day. Mark time with horn manuals," he explained shortly, looking somewhat anxious. "Don't forget the new manual after the boxes." I nodded mentally, praying I wouldn't knock my teeth out on the fast snap. They obviously didn't think much of our lips or teeth. We're supposed to snap, play, snap, play, snap and that's impossible, I thought. We don't have time to set our embouchures. Not fair. Still, I went along with the show, cringing in all the right spots. It didn't rain at all. We praised the Rain Bob, that he had finally taken pity on our poor band. Last year, they had said, it had rained too, but never two years in a row.  
I hoped that would hold.

Somebody pushed past me, breaking my reverie. We were supposed to form into the block, I realized. We were going to march out for the last time. I gulped, remembering all the other times we'd marched out. I remembered the guy in front of me continually screwing up, marching on the wrong foot and out of beat. How does he do that, I wondered. I couldn't get offstep or offbeat anymore, even if I tried: band had hammered it into my very soul. I even walked instep with my friends at school.

"Dang… where's my spot?" I muttered, searching frantically around for Offstep Guy, and seeing only Shako after Shako, flute after flute. Finally I spotted Jennie, who was behind me. Grateful for her shortness that stood out at least a little, I centered her hat, and waited patiently while she fixed mine. Checking my gauntlets one last time (argh… they'll never be perfect!) I enfolded my flute in a parade rest, ready for attention.

"Squad atten hut!" The DM surveyed us one last time, gave us one last look of hope, and a few final words.

"You go out there and win this. You're the best band here. Mark time HUT!"

I silently began marking time while the front people marched off. I was ready to dispute both the DM's statements: 1) he was the best, not us and 2) Lee was here. Lee had slaughtered us at the first competition, and I was sure they'd do so here, too. Offstep Guy began marching out, and I followed, cautiously guiding to the sophomores around me. Blame them if I was off. I noticed it was sprinkling again, and remembered the leaden clouds. It better stop fast, I mused, or we'd be dead. So many people had fallen down in the practice; they had been almost proud of their muddiness, but pride wouldn't fix what the judges would see. And think about the guard, with sodden flags.

It rained a bit harder.

We marched past the Visuals guy, making eye contact and receiving a short pep glance, and a nod. The band continued to snake out into the darkness, out of the brightly lit tennis courts that had been our practice area into the street. There were two or three streetlights on, but they were all far off. I could see a couple pools of light glowing somewhere ahead, but I kept my eyes on Offbeat Guy's hat. Stay _focused_. _Calm_. _Remember the show_.

It rained a bit more.

We soon got to the pools of light, which had spread and dimly lit a few parked cars. Leigh's guard was coming out, squinting in the sprinkling rain, smiling giddily at us.

"Don't worry, we did really badly. You will be way better than us."  
"Yeah, don't worry."  
"Hey, good luck!"  
"You're Lynbrook, right?"

Hyper little guardies, I thought. With your two perky little buns and shiny uniforms, with gauzy flags and Hershey's flags, with the cage and the wonderful visuals. With the away band camp and grueling practices. How could we ever beat you?

We marked time under the flickering orange streetlight for a dampeningly long time. The rain didn't cease; no, it persevered, and increased in volume. Some car swished by, splashing through the newly formed puddles that were no more than a thin sheet of water. The rain was illuminated in its headlights, yellow specks, falling, falling, always being replaced by more. I saw the dark spots forming on Offbeat Guy's shoulders, and on many more shoulders around me. The plumes, bogged down and soggy, drooped sadly while the silver flecks shuddered in the light wind. Those little bits of foil repel water, I decided. I wish our uniforms did too. We continued marking time. I now began worrying about the pads on my flute, and set about figuring out how to close all the keys. That amused me for a while, as another car whooshed by. The rain had fed the fattened puddles, and I saw droplets fly off past the headlights, the golden specks moving up as well as down- for they were moving down faster now, and more, too. 

Someone up ahead must have given a command, for the tap changed. The mark time seemed more focused; the show seemed so much more real. We set off towards the field, remembering where the judges sat, trying to imagine just how badly Lee could have done. They led us around the stands to a little grassy area above the field. Our drumline had stood here in the morning; now the band waited in its entirety.

We stood silently at parade rest, as the rain cascaded down upon us. Backs to the field, we listened to the band finish up their show as we reflected upon our awful luck. The tradition had been broken: it had rained twice in a row upon us. Would it rain next year? And this was our last show; what a sendoff. None of the freshmen had ever marched in rain; come to think of it, neither had the sophomores. How were we going to do it? Could we win?

Blessing the heavy wool that kept me dry, I shivered still. Could we?


	7. Onfield

A/N: whoa. I've been out of it. Not like anyone cares.

So- we were standing at attention. Dang, the band behind us is too perfect, I thought. It's pouring for them, too, and you can actually _hear_ them, and I'm not picking up any gasps from the audience, so Perfect Band hasn't yet turned into one big struggling pile. I bet we wi- no. Can't think negative. _Must_ _not_. 

I took a deep breath and forced my eyes to bore into the neck of the baritone in front of me. Concentrating on one droplet of water clarified my mind enough to run through the show, thinking up last-minute advice to myself. Don't step on Offstep Guy, like I had at Fresno. Well… it had been funny later, but a disapproving glance from some section leader as we laughed about it had soured my mirth. And avoid the backmarching drumline. They were the bane of our existence, seriously. So many times, I'd curved around them, quaking, as the quads got dangerously close. There was the memorable time where we'd had to leap out of their way… at a competition. Here, that would be deadly. I also had to get between the right tall guys- not mess up the horn maneuver, not knock my teeth out, not hit my flute on anyone during the turns, not get slaughtered in the scatter set… oops.

I finally began listening as the drum major called us to attention. I'd zoned out during his speech. Not good. 

"Left- HACE!"

We turned sharply, off-balance as the wet grass slithered out from beneath our shoes. I silently cursed each blade as I teetered precariously for a second, and then settled into an uneasy, shivery attention. The rain had finally found a way into my uniform via the back of the neck, and was allowing an elite few drops to find their way in. I could feel each one worming a path down my back, then disappearing into my t-shirt. 

"Mark-time- HUT!"

I began pounding the errant grass below me into mush. Ahh, revenge. How sweet it felt- sweeter yet as we began moving, which forced some life into my legs. The uniforms were thick and all, and despite the rain were still dry inside, but the dampness down my back sent unpleasant chills to wherever it could- legs and fingers included. Damn the rain.

We marched out onto the field, divided into our follow-the-leaders into the picture-frame set. I followed Offstep Guy, who wasn't in step. As usual. Oh, whatever- like the judges were looking at him. They were probably watching our perfect drumline… at least they could march.

Suddenly I realized I was supposed to be turning to my spot off some yard line or another. And I'd forgotten which one. Shoot. A quick search of my memory dredged up something about 2 steps off the 20-yard line, and I acted on that. Nobody hissed vile band curses at me so I assumed I was right. I was.

However, from there my luck went downhill. It often does that, doesn't it? Somewhere in his studio, the weatherman was thumbing his nose at us, as he sent an eddying wind to enhance our performance. It playfully whirled through the band as we sullenly stood at a loose parade rest, lightheartedly stuffing rain into our ears (it went through an alto's head and came out the other side… really it did…), up our noses and blindingly into our eyes, as we promised the weatherman a million deaths and such torture that he'd commit suicide before we could kill him. Or at least I did. Maybe the others had retained some sanity…

I looked up at our drum major and switched to a relaxed attention. I watched as the wind mischievously swirled his cape, while he put down his sword and saluted. A tidal wave of applause rose from the audience, as he radiated such assuredness, even though it was a wet assuredness. It was probably the broom-bristles on his helmet, I decided. Maybe we should all get broom-bristles. Too late for this season, though…

"Squad-atten'- HUT!"

"ONE!"

All around the field, the picture frame flashed to attention, instruments winking- wetly, as everything seemed to be- from the glare of the stadium lights. All together, in one single sleek motion, power-packed and serious. This band was ready.


	8. Part 1

Here it was. The highlight of our marching band season, the highlight of my second year as a flutist. And it was pouring.

We were at attention, solemn, hyped. The rain was an ever-moving yet ever-the-same picture against the lights- the same six-pac lights that had blinded us on the 'tino practice field. I shivered, anticipating the countoff.

"ROMAAANS! Build- me- a- city! Hut- hut- hut!"

I reflected on how that used to be "Romans, let hell loose"… I suppose someone had objected to that. How boring of them.

The pit began their clanging, and the guard began pulling their Marble Blocks of Wood, their sodden uniforms clinging dejectedly to their pathetic frames. They looked their part of slaves well enough… the band began falling out of the picture box to tiredly wend their way to their spots. We were supposed to look like worn-out drudges, so some people carried their instruments on their backs, limped, and helped each other along. It probably looked funny- slaves in smart band uniforms. As my count came up, I fell out too and limped slowly, waiting for Jennie to catch up. I'd sadly thrown out the possibility of twirling my flute since that seemed too joyous to our narrow-minded section leaders. Stupid flutes.

Jennie's arm hooked around my shoulder, and pressed my uniform to my skin. Not quite wet through, still. Thank the BOB.

We found our spots, getting in a clumsy line behind Sonya. As the drumline banged out their final beats we sprang to attention, instruments flickering all over the field. No longer were we slaves, oppressed and sad- we were the band, ready for revolution. Our music was great- our drill was fine- and our effects were cool. 

Then the whole field did a "pop" or a "lift" and the show began.

I felt the rain drip from my hat brim as I backmarched, carefully avoiding the shadow of Offstep Guy behind me. I remembered each set perfectly, putting my flute up during the right count- "Snap up, down in four"- and guided during the slide. During rehearsals when we'd taped it, I had noticed our cool domino effect as we began guiding one by one. You could barely blame us at first, since we'd diagonally backmarched into that line, but by now we should have been together. Apparently, Doc didn't find the domino effect especially cool. Offstep Guy suddenly moved a step back, and as I followed I realized we'd dominoed.  Phooey.

That couldn't be helped, and I strode to my next set while angrily belting out the crescendo. I'd switched flute bodies with my friend Yoda at Lodi, and I hadn't been able to play this crescendo loud enough. Of course, she had had crappy pads- she'd only just got them fixed- and hadn't been able to play half the notes back then. Oh well… that was history.

I halted and snapped my flute up to the box, thinking how French horns and trumpets, trombones and baritones must all be drowning now, in a mixture of rain, spit and slide oil. I heard horror stories later… gross.

Our next set was into circles. This was a cool part of the music, but a prelude to the cooler part- that coincided with the Drumline of Doom set. The snare drum solo as circles crossed the field was practically drowned out by the drumming of raindrops. _Die, o Rain._

The clarinets began their little blips. Fast moving and exciting, this part was electrifying. We snapped flutes up and began our blip ping-pong game with the clarinets, while curving around the drumline. The tenor sax that headed our line gave them a wide berth, and that was one danger averted. Praising the BOB, we headed into a mesh, during which I hit no one, and from that into the Sprinkler Hole mesh. On our practice field, my spot at the end of this set was in the sprinkler hole. I'd almost sprained my ankle so many times… but there was no sprinkler hole here. 

I was very close to the front sideline- I could make out a judge standing right there, wearing a poncho (lucky!) and talking into that little machine. They better cut us some slack, I thought. The grass wants us dead, not to mention the wind and the mud. Oh, and that little factor that's coming down from the heavens. Stupid weatherman.

We formed into our horn manual set. This was a very cool-looking maneuver, when we played blips and the drumline had a solo. We had a bunch of horn snaps, while didn't give us much time to set embouchures, but here, in the rain, I was afraid for my teeth. I'd bet anything I'd knock a couple of them out while I snapped my flute…

I didn't.

So, having lost "anything", I dismally marched towards the Third Move of Death- the do-sa-do. If you think you know what that is from square-dancing, you're wrong. Forget all that. Happy music and a clueless partner- no, that's not it. Instead, think of a sforzando and 4 quick interlocking 2-to-5 diamonds. Also, think of a horrified unbalanced second- an evil clump of grass- and mud. Lots of mud.

Halt.

End of Part 1.

Wow… so much already over. I'll never again get to do the Curve of Doom or the do-sa-do… just thinking about it makes me wistful now. Right then, it made me downright sad.


	9. Part 2

A/N: better finish this before next season. Dang I'm a procrastinator.

Part Two. Cool.

The saxes began their intro, but it was drowned out (no pun intended) by the downpour drumming on any flat surface it could find- especially our hats. The flutes stood tensely, counting, awaiting our moment to move. 6…7…8… As I turned around in 4 counts the grass back at the waiting area- or its spirit- came back to haunt me. I almost fell. Cursing it, I glanced at the block- or what was left of it. No one had been accurate in the do-sa-do, since the aisle was blocked by a clarinet looking forlornly up at me. The woodwinds were supposed to slowly seep into partners and form some interesting image, but I didn't quite get the image part. To me, the form looked like a bunch of paired-off people that were lost and wandering around. Oh well.

          My clarinet partner was also out of place. I'd changed my path to accommodate all the blockades, meandering around pointedly, awaiting the moment when the rest of the field would move, too. Somewhere to my right the rest of the flutes were already paired off, I thought with a pang of jealousy. Why did I have to be the one with the clarinet? There'd been lots of tweaking of my drill, since I was separate from the other flutes and yet not a clarinet. I'd tried staying put till the clarinets moved, or just moving even with him till the rest of the band turned around- in about 20 counts. It all looked weird.

          Now, I was supposed to switch to backmarching when the clarinets stepped off. They'd just changed that a week ago, in time for the previous competition. I quickly rotated, realizing I'd almost missed it. _Concentrate_. 

          We didn't play yet. Flutes barely played in Part 2. I felt the music- was the music- let the French horn solo carry me aw—shoot. It was wet. How could I float away on a nice little pink cloud when my uniform was heavy with water? I turned around, putting my flute up, and hit it on someone's shoulder. The lip plate painfully bounced against my teeth, and I cursed the dent that I'd probably made. Stupid. 

          At least we got to play now. I tried not to slip on the muddy grass, and missed a note. Shoot. How stupid was I? How many more mistakes was I going to make today? I halted just in time. Close one.

          Our next move was a turn, executed in complete silence. A true crowd-pleaser. Applause and screams spread outwards from our supporters to the other bands watching. My heart swelled with pride, yet again. Gotta love those cheers! We continued taking tiny steps as our curves tightened, and the trumpet solo began. Insanely high, it screeched through the rain, sending shivers down my spine. I could imagine the soloist's face, reddening… reddening… reddening…and then it was over. The drum major cut off the last chord, and there was silence.

          Well, almost. The ever-present drumming of rain intensified, I could feel it in my shoulders. Our plumes shook gently in the wind, sending droplets into faces and instruments, making me long for the hot weekend practices.

          Suddenly, the applause died down. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and I felt ready for anything. But was I?

A/N: boredom. I wrote a 7th hev fanfic!!! Dang I'm bored.


End file.
